Remnants: Eating Disorder, Mountains, and Clarity

I am having surgery on Monday. Well, tomorrow morning.

Actually, it’s almost 2 am so…later today.

They have to fix some things that were probably caused by my eating disorder years ago.

When one purges day after day, one can do some damage to the esophagus and especially

…the lower esophageal sphincter.

Did you know we have more than one sphincter?

Turns out we have several, only one that resembles certain human beings,

(but I have little time for such digressions, I would like to take a nap sometime tonight, or this morning or whenever.)

Where was I…

(The view from the visitor center at Rocky Mountain National Park.)

The voices in my head have been on overdrive, telling stories of hell.

History has a way of presenting itself in … the present.

And sometimes it’s difficult to differentiate the two.

Here is what happened

– the abbreviated version, with pictures and emojis in between to make it more – palatable.

(See what I did there?)

🤓

(Bear Lake at RMNP. I especially love the reflection

– it’s like a string quartet with mountains, water, rock and tree.)

The eating disorder has always been with me.

As a little girl I hated my body, felt the need to punish myself,

and obsessed on and off about food, weight and exercise.

It amped up when my other addictions began – drinking, using, acting out sexually.

They wove me together – the drugs and drinking helped me lose control,

the sex helped me dissociate,

and the eating disorder put me back in control.

???????????????

When I was 15, in drug rehab, everything changed.

?

I hadn’t eaten anything of substance in about two weeks.

They were going to force me to eat, so my roommate did what any other caring 16 year old addict would do

– she taught me how to make myself throw up.

?

That became my superpower.

⚡?⚡?⚡?⚡?⚡?⚡

(This is a duck on Lake Sprague.

You can’t see it well here, be we could.

It was adorable )

?

This was in 1984.

I suffered severely for ten years,

hospitalized on a medical unit and then psychiatric unit for 2 months at 17 (at a year clean and sober),

then another eating disorder unit for 3 months at 21,

and another, my last one, for 4 months at 24., followed my a six month hospitalization fro trauma.

Before my last hospitalization, I drank water and ate lettuce just so I could purge.

There were days when I would purge up to 30 times, accomplishing little else,

and (this is hard to talk about) after vomiting up blood and bile, I would often take a box of laxatives just to punish myself.

☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️

I had so much self hatred and disgust.

(This picture – it’s like I’m looking ahead and behind.

It’s the past and future – in the present. Isn’t that interesting)

And every time I was hospitalized for it, I experienced horrendous flashbacks that I didn’t understand, which lead me to cut myself with whatever I could.

i was not well.

(Plants in the tundra work very hard just to survive.

That’s why they are so precious.)

Poor little Erliss.

(An uprooted tree, root side. I can relate…)

I only wanted to NOT FEEL.

Feeling meant I was not safe, and the way I ate or didn’t eat or purged or worked out hours at a time

– made me feel safe.

Nothing could touch me.

Nothing except, of course, until I was forced to be still,

then I experienced the torture that has resided in my mind and boy since I was little.

could not be

still.

(Poudre Lake – up at the Continental Divide.

This water goes to the Atlantic Ocean, and the water on the other side goes to the Pacific Ocean.

It’s weird how that works.)

So tomorrow they will fix a couple of things, and not only does it require me to be still,

but it requires me to care

for

myself.

Why did I go into all of this?

I haven’t binged, purged, or restricted since I was 25.

It’s almost 4 am, and my brain is mush. So what is the point?

I did something on Friday – I took charge of my workaholic self, and decided we were going to the park.

I didn’t care about work, or cleaning or “being there” for anyone else. I needed to go.

And with a clarity that I have not experienced in a long time,

I took the 17 year old we care for and we drove up to the park.

(Happy Trails to You – sign at exit of the YMCA of the Rockies in Estes Park.

It was raining in the morning, but then later the rain stopped raining.)

Friends, I am tired.

I’m going to post this, and post the pictures, and remember that I stood still staring at a lake,

and a mountain, and an elk, and a marmot, and the snow, and clouds, and the river, and big horn sheep,

and I felt

alright.

I’m going to take care of myself tomorrow.

All the scary voices in my head are asleep.

(A blurry view from the drive at the top, the clouds drifting above the peaks, settling there.)

It’s just me right now.

❤️❤️

Thank you for listening, and following my little journey here.

I apologize for being all over the place – I am tired, but I feel better.

Here is the view at 12,000 feet. It’s a refreshing perspective.

Much Love,

Erliss

Psychokinetic Girl Power: Sobriety, Resourcing, and Cow Talk

Young, Sober and Angry

“F*ck You! Go to hell! I wish I was never born!” I screamed, and slammed the front door as hard as I could – I felt like the Hulk. At sixteen I was a few months clean and sober, a fragile clean and sober. And my anger turned me funky shades of green, purple and mauve and I SWEAR I grew six more feet and became psychokinetic – not like Firestarter, she was pyrokinetic. She could start fires with her mind. I loved that book. As a young person I read and reread everything I could by Stephen King. My mother thought he gave me nightmares. She did not understand. Stephen King helped me escape my nightmares, or awakemares, my living terrors. Thank you, Mr. King, for providing me with a resource so I didn’t fade into the abyss.

Psychokinesis is when you can move things with your mind. My brain held no organized belief system about this, but it seemed like my anger had special strength; it was overwhelming.

That day I was arguing with my parents about something that wasn’t fair. Our home often hosted apocalyptic crusades where I fought to make justice a reality for my mind. It was far worse before I got sober.

A year earlier, when I was 15, (and had a 30 something very scary “boyfriend.” I may write about that someday, or not. The “relationship” lasted 6 months, then 4 months, then it never REALLY ended for a couple more years – it was hell. Makes me want to scratch my eyes out when I think of it, but I need my eyes to see, so I won’t think of it for now.) I had a chance to go away with my father for a special weekend. Our church was part of a state convention that included a reunion and performance with my summer music camp. I somehow managed to sing, act, and play the piano while under the constant influence of various chemicals. It’s amazing how we addicts can mimic a functioning human being.

The night before we were to leave, a drama unfolded with my father; I swore, screamed, broke dishes, and threw a vacuum cleaner at him – it landed on his foot. I still believe that his issues with walking in his later years were not helped by that incident. Guilt and shame – the gifts that keep on giving.

Pause. I have pretty intense attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. Surprised, I know. I hide it so well. ADHD is common with people in recovery and PTSD. And it’s common for 2 am writing episodes. I invite you to wear protective gear and go along for the ride. Seriously, wear protective gear, it could get…tangential.

Where was I?

Oh yeah, my father said I could not go to the weekend. He had NO clue how much I was suffering, that I had this creepy man after me, and I desperately wanted to get out of town. The following morning as he collected his luggage for the trip, I chased my father out of the house, while everyone who worked at the post office behind our house put their bags down to watch the show. I screamed, called him names, tried to hit him; he defended himself by swinging his suitcase around, then I fell over, tossed about and yelled from the ground “ I hate you! I HATE YOU! F*ck you!!!!!” and he rushed to his car, as the onlookers…looked…on.

We lived downtown, next to the church where my father was the pastor. Yes. Right. Next. To. The. Church. A narrow sidewalk separated the church building from the house. You could almost stand in between the two and touch both buildings. (Well, not unless your arms were 8 feet long. Of course if you ate a few psychedelic fungi thingys, your arms could grow that long; I know, I read Alice in Wonderland. True story, believe me.) I wish reality shows were popular back then – I would be driving a nicer car today. Maybe a Prius.

As an aside to the aside…My father was my hero. Life is complicated. Kids are complicated. Parents are complicated. Addiction sucks. He was my best friend after I got sober, and now he is gone.

I miss him.

On this afternoon (we are going back to the main subject of this post. If you have forgotten where we are, here is a quick recap: I was a few months sober and slammed the front door while fighting with my parents – It’s not fair – and swore a lot.) By the time I hit the porch steps, the door hit the door frame so hard the glass shattered. Everywhere. Over the railing into the bushes, and over my head onto my sneakers, and I said “Shit!” and ran. Actually, I put my hands up to my face with a shocked look like Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone. Here is link, in case you have forgotten: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0099785/

My own rage terrified me.

Psychokinesis was clearly to blame. So I ran.

I ran.

And ran.

I ran, I ran so far away, yey yey yey…I couldn’t get away. Remember Flock of Seagulls? Wasn’t their hair AMAZING? In case you have forgotten, here they are.

I was more of a metal head and classical piano geek in high school, but this is one of those songs I could never get out of my head. Now you can’t either. You are welcome.

I ran to my sponsor’s house. My sponsor was a force – tough, and she always knew what to do. I cried about my parents, how awful and horrid they were (they weren’t) and then I cried about how gross and dirty and awful and evil I was. I wailed that I wanted to drink and trip and die. I hyperventilated as I explained that I was trying to stay away from that “boyfriend” (Same guy I talked about earlier – my sponsor called him “numb-nuts”- the meaning of which was oblivious to my naive sixteen year old brain – I thought it was meant to be cute. Sigh.)

A college student staying at her house was also sober. He offered to take me for a drive. And I went because I never knew how to say no to anyone, except to my parents, obviously.

Sitting in the front seat of his car, I was waiting for it – the time when he would pull over, give me that look, point to his equipment, and youknowtherest. But it never happened. He talked about getting sober young and how difficult it can be. He shared about how nature helps him center himself, that it’s part of his eleventh step spiritual practice.

We were on country roads by then and came up to a field with cows.

“Do you want to get out and talk with the cows?” This seemed like some weird code for sex. Talk with the cows? Was he stoned?

I braced myself for what was certain to turn into another encounter where the-man-took-what- he- needed, and I got out of the car anyway. We went up to the fence and leaned on it, and looked at the cows.

“If we stay still, they might come closer.” He pointed to the field and smiled.

We watched. Curiously. The wind blew and tasted like daisies and honey. I felt myself exhale, and my shoulders fell a little bit.

One cow came closer. And then another. And another. We talked to them, said “Hello, how are you?” and they seemed to understand. We laughed a little, and noticed. Life was all around us.

He never touched me – not one time. I felt a little less gross and dirty and awful and evil. I felt lighter, as I looked into the eyes of those cows, and they seemed to look back into mine.

I felt safe and secure and

He

never

touched

me.

Never. Not once. I didn’t get the creeps. I was secure. And safe. And he never touched me.

Can you understand how true this is? I don’t mean true as in not a lie. It is true that way. But it’s also true as in holy true, almost mystical. For that 16 year old, barely sober, with superpower rage and self-hate to experience the beauty of cows’ eyes with the safety of a young man who DID NOT WANT ANYTHING FROM HER ! I need a minute…

* Exhale*

In my present day, I am working on establishing safety: When in my life did I realize I was safe? What memories can I use to resource my healing? How do I know that I am no longer in danger? When have I felt the most like myself? Where in my body do I notice my strength?

You are safe, Erliss. Be curious…and notice what happens next.

This memory came up last week in therapy with my SE guy (Somatic Experiencing; it’s a kind of trauma healing focused on healing from the body – the nervous system. Here is a link; check it out if you wish: https://traumahealing.org ) I don’t remember the context, but I remember feeling excited: I have a resource memory – a really good resource memory.

I didn’t drink or use or kill myself. No one tried to hurt me. I broke the door but I was willing to face whatever consequences awaited me. And for that moment, talking with the cows, with a guy who understood being young and sober – and he didn’t touch me.

It’s late, 3 am. At this moment, all is well with the world. My husband and dog are asleep, the wind is howling, my ADHD is very much alive and well; Gratitude fills my heart as I am clean, sober, and quite safe.

Thank you for listening.

Much love to each of you.

Erliss, The Monkey Whisperer

PS: My Psychokinetic Girl Power is very much in tact – just a little less obvious.

Do Not Touch

This is me.

Do not grab. Do not squeeze. Do not poke-hit-caress-pinch-touch or otherwise inhabit.
Do not coerce. Do not drug. Do not demean – belittle – dehumanize.

You saw. You took. You threw away. And then you haunted – terrified – terrorized and did it again
and again
and over
and over
until I could no longer tell or desire or individuate or even breathe in –

my own skin could. Not. Burden. My. Shame.

Things have shifted.
I will not look over my shoulder. I will not wake up screaming at 2 am.

I will not exfoliate my thighs clean from your filthy hands.

I will not starve-eat-cut-drug-work-sex-run-hide-freeeeeeeeeeeeeeze

And I will not take your blame
any
more.

This is me.
Do not touch.
These knuckles aren’t bloody from punching my pillow.

Hysterectomy Hysteria

_20151027_015439

WARNING: This post contains explicit language. Not George Carlin’s “Seven Dirty Words You Can Not Say on Television,”(though I have been known to use and even love some of his words.) [Oh, here is a link, if you need a good laugh and can handle a little profanity https://youtu.be/kyBH5oNQOS0] No, I mean explicit as in proper terminology, not slang. But for some of us it feels like slang. And yet this “explicit language” contains words that reference every day existence, at least for women.

The following body words are simple. Say them with me: face, hands, feet, lungs, hearts, medullas, amygdalas, toenails, hair. See? No problem.

But THESE words, I could never say them without embarrassment and shame. I still have some shame with them, but it’s lessened with practice.

Repeat after me if you wish. I will go from easiest to most difficult.

Fallopian tubes.

Ovaries

Uterus. (Ok, it’s getting more difficult.)

Cervix. (ouch)

Labia. (ewe)

V…V…Vug… Vagina.

There are hundreds of slang names-some endearing, some disgusting, for vagina. I am ashamed to say that all of them are easier for me to say than vagina. We have:

Va-Jay-Jay (which is kind of adorable)

Coochie

The “c” word (it is so vulgar and abusive; I refuse to say it.)

Pussy

Hoohah

Golden Palace

Venus Butterfly

Pooter

Beaver

Kitty cat

And the one I have used most of my life… “Down There.”

It is much easier to say “penis” than “vagina.” Once when I was doing my chaplaincy residency I went to visit an older gentleman in his room. He excitedly exclaimed to me “You should see the giant scar right next to my penis!!” And before I could respond “No, I shouldn’t,” he flung open the sheets and there it was. Friends, you can never unsee that sort of thing.

I have never heard a woman say, even after giving birth, “My vagina hurts,” or “Look what happened to my vagina,” or anything about her vagina at all. It’s like some unwritten code, women do not talk about their vaginas.

I forgot the point here.

Oh, that’s right. I am having a hysterectomy. Tomorrow. I have severe endometriosis, always have, and the pain has recently become unbearable. I can no longer spend half of my days curled up in a ball, sucking my thumb while calling out for my dog Agnes. Which is the weirdest part, because I do not have a dog.

I am not freaked out about the possibility of getting cut open. I find that fascinating. I am freaked out about them not cutting me open. They will try to begin robotically, with a couple tiny incisions. And if they can get the tools in there, they will clip away at things, and then go up my vagina and suction everything out. They will go up my vagina and suction everything out while I am not awake. THEY WILL GO UP MY VAGINA AND SUCTION EVERYTHING OUT WHILE I AM NOT AWAKE DO YOU FUCKING BELIEVE THIS SHIT?!?!

I need a break. Hold on. Here, look at this cute kitten video my therapist introduced me to.

https://youtu.be/4I9BUnL6TFs

I’m back.

It’s not like my vagina hasn’t seen a lot of traffic. Before I was married it resembled a drive through for Chinese take-out. And when I was using and drinking, I didn’t know what was going on down there. Much of the activity was unwanted, forced. I felt like my choice in the matter was gone. It wasn’t a part of me anyway. It was foreign. I didn’t care what happened, I told myself. You deserve it.

We won’t discuss my experience as a child. There aren’t enough cute cat videos for that one.

My therapist suggested that I envision something less invasive, or maybe even silly. Like a Muppet Show episode, with The Swedish Chef as the surgeon and Waldorf and Statler (the balcony judges –remember them?) as narrators. One friend informed me, assuredly, that they will find Amelia Earhart up there. Another friend suggested the lost jewels from the Titanic. Personally I think it would be cool if they found a teratoma – one of those growths, usually benign, that can have hair, teeth, eyes, even a jawbone. A friend of mine had one years ago. She was freaked out, I was psyched out. Her coolness factor skyrocketed in my eyes that day.

My uterus and ovaries have been operated on three times. They have never found anything cool, gross, or extra-terrestrial. Each ended with “It’s a mess down there. I don’t know if you will be able to have children.” After my first surgery, where they thought they could go in laparoscopically, but had to cut me open, they put me on Lupron. I was 26, and wanted children. If they used Lupron, maybe it would clear up the endometriosis, and I could get pregnant. After six months of living in a state of mock menopause, I had doubled over in pain. They performed another surgery and removed a huge cyst. I was on Lupron for five years, terrified that the lining of my uterus would take over my entire body and choke me to death. We tried over the years, to get pregnant. We did hormones, the family planning method, homeopathy, and voodoo stuff. About every six months, the pain became so great that I had to go back on the pill and stop my periods altogether.

I remember my first period. For 3 days prior to its glorious entrance, I obsessed about killing myself. And when it came, I felt like a grizzly bear was about to burst out of my belly. It was hell. (And we called it “my friend?” WTF?) Every period was a reminder that I was bad, somehow morally corrupt. And ALL-every, ALL of my suicide attempts happened just before my period. When I got sober at 16, I became anorexic. Not only did it make me less attractive to the men I had been with, but it stopped my periods. It kept me in a state of amenorrhea. I did not like being “woman.” “Woman” meant powerlessness. I needed power. If my period was gone, I felt power. I was safe.

SLIGHT DETOUR AHEAD. When my mother was pregnant with their fourth child, my seven year old self pestered her with the most craziest, wonderfullest, awesomist possibility ever in the universe or anyplace else: “Hey mom, what if you had the baby, and then that baby had a baby, and then that baby had a baby, and then THAT baby had a baby—you would be a mom, grandma, great grandma, and GREAT GREAT GRANDMA all at once!” I knew this was going to happen. It had to happen that way. Babies were perfect. I thought the angels flew from heaven and placed them in mommies’ bellies. I had no idea that something so beautiful was made by such…blech. And worse, that it came out of that dirty place.

Sigh. Time for a break. Here is a Zen Koan for you to ponder: What is the sound of one hand clapping? When you have an answer, let me know.

RETURN

I want something good to come from…all of that…down there. I longed…Someday, some beauty will come from the ugliness inside of me… my shame will birth joy.

Oh…

This is a painful, wounded place in me. I cannot be here long before I float away. And I must acknowledge these parts, these states of mind. They hold tremendous shame, grief, fear, memories. As I go there now I feel the wound open, I hear her weeping – her tears salt my face, turning the numbness into a breath, a tingling, rolling, breathing shape of ash and glitter. The loss of innocence. The loss of expectation. The hope…hope…where is the hope…

I used to hate my uterus, my ovaries, my cervix, and certainly my vagina. In the last few months I have felt a sense of forgiveness. They didn’t start out with great chances. She did the best she could. There was so much happening. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t your fault, Erliss. Now I don’t want to say goodbye. But it’s been like hospice care for the last several years. It’s time to let her go. She wants to go. She is ready to go. Say what you need to say.

What do I need to say?

Yesterday a friend threw me a “Farewell to My Uterus” party. It was hilarious. She made head bands and slippers with panty-liners. She gave me chocolates and a stuffed uterus – like a stuffed animal, only it’s a uterus, with fallopian tubes and ovaries, and a great big smile. Another friend gave me yellow roses, and another a cute little pumpkin and some lavender. I collected donations for the local battered women’s shelter- crayons, coloring books, nail polish, maxi-pads and tampons. Of course a couple of months ago I ordered a bulk supply of tampons and pads, so this shelter will be set for a while.

We sat in a circle, talked about life. Our cycles. The moon. We did some art prayer. We wrote affirmations and smudged them with sage. It was healing. Hilarious healing. Hilarious hysterialectitious healing.

I am ready for tomorrow. I would rather be awake, of course. I would like to perform the surgery myself. You don’t want them all “down there” doing their business without your supervision.

Slow down, Erliss. I thoroughly back checked these guys. They are kind, well trained, and do this all the time. You even liked the surgeon’s voice, remember? You told him if he sang during the surgery, your uterus would float out? Remember?

I could not have the surgery. No one has forced me into this. I am not being violated. This is my choice. The doctors are my choice. The procedure…well…I want them to NOT touch my vagina. I want them to cut me open completely and take everything out the old fashioned way. God, I hope my abdominal cavity is in such disarray and disorder that the robot won’t fit, and they will STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY VAGINA!

What a thing to wish.

Breathe.

Last week my surgeon asked me “If I see a really good ovary…” then he paused. I responded “Are you gonna ask it out on a date?” My poor ovaries. I do have empathy for their suffering. I am not angry at them anymore.

I usually hold immense self-hatred and anger. I don’t feel any of that right now. I feel…I feel…pity? Sad? Numb? Separated? Lost? Confused?

In the deep shadow behind my mind, I hold her. I hold she who tried… to survive, to be born, to hide, to be loved.

I hold her.

I fade.

It’s hard to say goodbye to a dream. Even when the dream is a nightmare. Even when the dream has surpassed its viability. Even when the dream should have never envisioned itself. You should have never wandered in desire, in longing. You should have never let them…never let them inside…never…never…

Erliss, honey, you did nothing wrong. It will be all right.

This…hurts…so…deep…

It’s hard

to say

goodbye.

My final words? What needs to be said? What am I afraid to say?

Thank you for always being there with me. I am sorry I hurt you. I am sad to see you go. I love you.

By this time tomorrow, my uterus, fallopian tubes, cervix, and ovaries will be gone. It will just be me and my vagina. It’s getting easier to say… my vagina. My vagina.

MY vagina.

Much love to you all, and thank you for trudging this way with me.